


ten years, reckoning

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [1]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:36:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shape of her eyes, the tilt of her mouth – these are things, you’ve realised, not easily forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten years, reckoning

 

 

_You're resting on your laurels_

_And stepping on my toes_

* * *

The queue is nearly out the door of the shop, but you’ve been cramped in a stuffy train car for over two hours so you can’t say you really mind the wait. A chance to stretch your legs. Someone’s pushed open the door just as you approach, and the aroma of freshly ground coffee hits your lungs like a breath of fresh air. The patrons shuffle forward as you scroll through your inbox, sending off emails with quick swipes of your thumb, until you’re finally stood in front of a less-than-eager barista.

“Small, black. Two sugars, please.” Yours is a practiced smile, the small, tight one, reserved for exchanges such as this. Hardly cold, but not altogether sincere.

“First and last name?” The girl has a black marker poised over your paper cup.

Clearing your throat, you look back to your mobile which has just vibrated in your hand. “Oh, you can just put Naomi. Thanks.”

Upon returning eye contact, you sense a struggle waging across the girl’s face as she decides whether or not to press the matter of your surname.

“And the last name – sorry, but it’s just according to the training protocol, I’ve got to ask for first _and_ last.”

Fucking corporate capitalism. _The bloody ruin of good customer service_ , you think. There are moments, even more so as you age, where your internal monologue sounds more like your mum’s than your own.

“It’s unlikely there’ll be another Naomi awaiting this very order, don’t you think?”

“Well –“

“It’s Campbell, isn’t it?”

The features are all wrong. Eyes that have warmed [if that’s even possible] and weathered a bit over time. Hair that’s darker and longer and straighter than you’ve ever seen it. But the voice, you’d recognise anywhere. Which is what stops every word you attempt to form from sounding like anything other than strangled air.

She looks amused by your sudden inability to speak, and it’s not until after a full three seconds of just _looking_ at her that you finally manage to remember the barista, her insistence on _protocol_ , and her fucking black marker.

“That’s right,” you say, turning back to the counter wearing a grin that feels all too familiar. “It’s Campbell. Naomi Campbell.”

The girl pauses for another beat before scribbling onto the side of the cup and mumbling something about you being a ‘ _bloody smartarse._ ’ And you’d probably be more inclined to ask her just how that attitude towards a paying customer fits into her precious training module if you weren’t also completely out-of-sorts at the moment. If you weren’t also standing beside a girl who once changed the course of your entire life.

When you move towards the end of the counter to wait for your coffee she follows so that when you turn to lean your hip against the granite surface, she’s stood right in front of you. _Petite as fucking ever_ , you think. You cross your arms, eye her curiously while biting at your top lip to keep from smiling too obviously, and finally say, “Emily Fitch.”

“This is quite –“ she starts, just shaking her head a bit and holding your eyes like she’s trying to reconcile the past ten years with a single look.

“Unexpected?” You offer, releasing her gaze for only a second to receive your coffee as it’s slid towards you.

“Well that’s the fucking understatement of the century,” she laughs, and your hand grips tighter to the coffee cup in response. And then, “What are you up to? Do you have a minute?”

You don’t actually. There’s the hotel check-in, meetings to book, clients to see. You can’t possibly sit still for any amount of time with _anyone_ really. Let alone commit to even a few spare minutes with the likes of Emily Fitch. So when you hear yourself answering, “Of course,” you’re honestly a bit surprised.

The shop is terribly crowded, but Emily must’ve spotted you when you entered because, by the looks of the table to which she leads you, she’s been here for a while. It’s covered in books, disorderly papers strewn across its surface. It’s familiar in a way that doesn’t sit well; it’s remnants of an Emily you left somewhere, a long time ago.

“What’s all this?” you ask when Emily starts shuffling around the papers and stacks of books to clear a spot for you.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, and for a split second you want to pry. You want to know what she’s studying, if she’s writing. You want to know – and you _don’t_ , it’s a fucking battle in your head at present – whether she’s finished what she set out to do back then.

Instead you nod, scan the titles of a few books before she’s managed to stash them away on the chair beside her, and sit down across from a hauntingly familiar set of brown eyes.

It should be more awkward, you think, since it’s not as if you’ve kept in touch at all in at least a decade. And yet, the thing most prominent, as your head tries to settle on a singular emotion, is excitement. You honestly feel a bit giddy to have stumbled upon this chance encounter; and so where you’ve now gnawed too forcefully at your upper lip is sore and throbbing.

“So, you’re local, I take it?”

“Deduction was always a strong suit of yours,” she answers, sips from her water bottle and licks her lips.

Your mouth goes a bit dry watching her, and you think, _Christ – that was an unexpected sensation_. Clearing your throat, you look downward, run a finger along the plastic lid of your cup.

“Been here long? In London, I mean.”

Emily exhales and leans back into her chair, looks toward the window that you’re sat beside. “Eight years?” she says, looking back to you with narrowed eyes, as if you’d be able to verify her math.

“So after university then,” you start cautiously, still trying to decide just how far back into history you’re willing to go.

“Right. God, it’s been fucking ages, hasn’t it?” She shakes her head and smiles, though it’s said so lightly, so easily, you’re fairly certain she’s not trying to launch into something massive of which you’re not at all prepared to engage.

“It has.” You nod and hold the warm, paper cup with both hands. There’s a brief pause then, where you watch her – all brilliant smile and bright eyes – like you’re just waiting for something in her to falter. She doesn’t, not even a little, but looks away after a few seconds and continues shaking her head like she’s trying to rid herself of some nagging disbelief.

“So, right, after Uni I bounced around a bit – spent time in Prague and Berlin. Katie and I did a tour of Thailand – did some human rights work in Burma.”

You can’t help but raise your brow at that, but Emily just smiles and nods.

“Oh yes, you wouldn’t recognise Katie these days – she’s a far cry from the girl who once attacked you at a college ball.”

“I hardly recognised _you_!” you laugh, which isn’t really true. Because the shape of her eyes, the tilt of her mouth – these are things, you’ve realised, not easily forgotten.

“I could say the same,” she says, sweeping her eyes over your face and hair and clothes. “Though, your penchant for being difficult clearly hasn’t changed.”

You consider a retort, but it dies on your tongue when Emily shoots you a look that has always, _always_ been able to shut you up on the spot. So instead you say, “Right, I know. The hair – it was quite a signature for a while.” Running your fingers through it – long and auburn and marginally healthy since you’ve stopped exposing it to so much bloody peroxide – you then say, “Though, I’m sure you get that as well.”

Emily concedes with a short, barking laugh. “I still can’t believe I wore it that way – god, that _colour_. When I see old photos,” she’s saying, shaking her head and making a face of mild disgust.

“It looked good.” You’ve said it with a shrug, but it doesn’t come off sounding as casual as it should, not nearly as casual as you’d _hoped._ And you think Emily’s noticed since she’s found a spot on the table to chip at with her thumbnail. So you follow up quickly with, “Anyway, we pretty much got away with anything back then, didn’t we? Fashion be damned?”

You’re both laughing again when your mobile buzzes, rattling its way across the table before you snatch it up.

“Do you need to take that?” she asks.

“No – I mean, yes.” You fidget to silence it before admitting, “Actually, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a rather full day.”

“Oh, you should have said – I’m just sitting here procrastinating essays and here you have an actual life to get back to.”

“Well, yes. Sort of, but –“

“Are you in town for long? Or, for good? Sorry, I didn’t even get to ask what you’re doing these days.”

You stop yourself from saying, ‘Nor did I’ since it sounds like the beginning of a much longer conversation, and instead settle with, “I’m in town for a bit – nothing permanent.” It rolls out of your mouth easily, from having said those same eight words so many times before. It could be your fucking mantra, you think.

The call you’ve now ignored goes to voicemail, and you glance nervously at the time before slipping it back into your pocket. When you look back to Emily, she’s fishing out her own mobile and hands it over with a smile.

“Your number,” she says with an eye roll when you hesitate taking it from her. “Don’t think I’m going to run into you after all this time and be satisfied with one, sodding, fifteen minute conversation.”

“You always were a bit chatty,” you smile, typing your information into Emily’s phone.

“Those who live in glass houses, Naomi,” Emily chides.

Your stomach flips involuntarily when she says your name, her head tilted just so once you’ve looked up at her, and you can’t for your fucking _life_ figure out how there’s still a sixteen-year-old girl living somewhere inside your body after so much time.

“There you have it,” you say, clearing your throat and sliding the phone back across the table.  

“Great, so I’ll just shoot you a text or something – let you know my schedule?”

“Yeah, that’d be – that’d be great,” you manage.

“Sounds … g _reat_.”

She’s taking the piss, apparent by the smirk she gives you when you slide the chair back and stand. “Well, aren’t we the great conversationalists of our generation, Emily Fitch?”

You’re a breath away from forming a concise farewell when something ghosts across her face and she rushes out, “I’ll walk out with you actually.”

“Oh.”

“I just mean, I should head out anyway – I’ve had enough caffeine today to power a small automobile.”

She’s already gathering her books and hurrying to clear the table while you’re just stood beside it, still not having managed a proper response. So when she’s slung a large canvas bag over her shoulder, which dwarfs her completely, she just looks over to you and says, “Come on then, you’re the one in a hurry, yeah?”

“Right,” you say and follow her out of the coffee shop.

**

Things are bustling in front of the hotel – all valets and luggage and trolleys. So you’re both stood off to the side, under the shade of a grand awning, and Emily shifts from one foot to the other, readjusting the weight of her bag.

“Lush living,” she says and squints up at the building towering behind you, the early afternoon sun reflecting off its glass.

“Is it? I haven’t yet checked in, actually.”

“Oh? When you said you were in town, I just assumed –“

“I’ve just arrived. Stopped in for a coffee straight off the train.”

“Well, how fortunate then,” she says. When she looks back at you, a bit of your coffee revolts at the back of your throat.

“What’s that?”

“Of all the coffee joints, in all of South London, you walked into mine.”

You’re not sure, but you hope to god that either the shade of the awning or the bright streams of light from the sun are masquerading the blush on your neck and cheeks because the heat of it is fucking unbearable.

“I see your charm hasn’t waned with age,” you finally manage, pressing your lips firmly together, suppressing a grin, as you look down to your shoes.

Emily is still watching you when you look back up – just wearing this easy sort of expression as if she hasn’t _flirted_ with you in front of a busy hotel in the middle of the day after more than a decade apart. It’s lucky then, that your mobile chooses this moment to start vibrating again, tickling your leg through the thin material of your pocket lining. It startles you out of something, and Emily too, because as you reach for it she’s already apologising and backing away.

“Sorry – you’re busy and I’m holding you up like a selfish twat.”

You glance at the screen then back at her. “I’m sorry but I really do have to take this. We’ll talk soon, yeah?”

“Yes, definitely,” she says.

And just as you’re putting the phone to your ear, you return her small, awkward wave and start for the large, glass doors of the building.

**

The week is quick and exhaustive, as most first weeks in a new place tend to be. Long days full of meetings and consultations followed by nights of dinners, drinks, and the company of strangers. You don’t complain – your life is far from mundane or repetitive, but the schedule, it takes its toll. So by Saturday, when you’ve finally some time to reacquaint yourself with lovely Londontown, you’d much prefer to lounge about the hotel and catch up on sleep. Instead you find yourself milling through vendors at an open market.

Emily had waited all of 72 hours before sending a text to see about making dinner plans. And you managed to shirk her for two nights solid – your head still trying to wrap itself around seeing her for twenty minutes, let alone the notion of _dining_ with her– but when excuses had failed you this morning, you’d said something trite like: _Dinner would be lovely_. And have thus spent the rest of the morning trying to think of ways to compensate for your shit reply. Because you _are_ interested in hearing about who she is, where she’s been, and what’s happened along all those years in-between. You desperately want to know, even if it’s more likely a draw between _actual_ interest and morbid curiosity.     

You’re in front of a stall perusing flower arrangements because you think presenting a bouquet to your dinner host is a perfectly traditional form of gratitude. Because you think it might be nice to do something so very adult – a proper dinner on a Saturday evening where you present a freshly plucked arrangement of flowers – with someone who once pulled back your hair as you vomited from too much tequila. _Because_ , you think, _Emily has always loved flowers_.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s her. Of course it’s her. Because if anyone could [ _twice_ in one week] seek you out in a city that houses more than eight million people, it would _of course_ be Emily Fitch.  

“You’re not stalking me, are you?” you ask with a smile, your fingers still trailing over the blossoms to your left.

“Not for ages,” she says and squints one eye closed when she looks up at you, making this funny little smile because the sun is directly in her face. “So, flowers, ey?”

It takes you a second too long to respond, and when you do it’s horribly uncool and fumbled because, apparently, life is cruel in ways your mum never bothered to forewarn. “Uh, yes. I thought, well, dinner tonight, and they’re locally grown, and I thought it would be a nice way to say, um, thanks.” She nods along – smirking a little more than smiling, though you try not to notice – until you finally recover a bit from thinking about Emily stalking you and where that got you the _last_ time, enough to say, “Though you’ve completely ruined the element of surprise by popping up here now.”

She laughs the way she’s always has – open and unguarded – and it should be refreshing, sharing a laugh with an old friend. Except it’s Emily, who’s always complicated your enjoyment of her company simply by being herself.

“I promise to act with nothing but surprise and appreciation,” she says, placing one hand over her chest. And then, “Besides, Rosalind will adore you for them. She loves daisies.”

Your hand pauses along a flower petal. “Sorry, Rosalind?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, I’m such a tit – Rose is my girlfriend. Or, partner, I guess. Girlfriend doesn’t sound quite right, but, yes, she’s my, uh –“ Emily’s looked over to the table of flowers and is gesturing with her hands, no longer making eye contact freely, as she rambles. It’s a stroke of good fortune then, that she’s not seen your face and how it’s probably contorted itself to look completely horrified.

A light breeze slips between you, whisking away with it your sudden stupor, and you quietly help her locate the word she’s searching for. “Person.”

“What?” she says. And when she looks back at you just then, you’re fairly certain you’ve managed at least a small smile.

“Rose.” The name itself sticks unpleasantly on your tongue, but you reiterate, “She’s your person.”

Emily breathes out, returns your smile. “Yes, exactly. She’s my person.”

You don’t remember ever needing a drink so bad in your entire, fucking life, and that’s accounting for the multiple times you’ve walked in on your mum and her random, transient lovers. And yet, this somehow feels more damaging. You’re still attempting to swallow, breathe, remain standing, and just generally recover from hearing Emily say the word ‘ _partner’_ when something over your shoulder catches her eye. 

“Oh my _god_ , they came back!” She’s grabbed hold of your wrist before you’ve even turned your head to see what she’s on about, and suddenly you’re stumbling after her, clumsily weaving through the crowds of people.

When you stop, she’s pulled you into a long queue in front of a delicious-smelling stall. She drops your wrist, and your heart ceases to hammer like the onset of a panic attack.

“Candy apples? You’re going mental over _candy apples_?”

“Oh, you’ve never had _these_ candy apples. They’re fucking brilliant – you’ll split one with me, yeah?”

“I’ve not even had lunch,” you laugh.

“And you’re suddenly too grown-up now to have sweets in lieu of a proper meal?” she challenges.

“In all fairness, Emily, you’re the one who just used the word _partner_.”

She slaps your arm and there’s something so endearing about the way she says, “Oh, fuck off,” that you feel something long overdue suddenly right itself again.

**

You cave to the apple and end up sat at a table in the shade, desperately trying to eat the thing before the sun melts all the chocolate. Emily had insisted on the 'Chocoholic Supreme,' an apple dipped once in vanilla toffee, then a creamy, Belgian chocolate, and finished with a white chocolate drizzle. Even still, she’s argued that you’re technically eating _fruit_ for lunch, which is clearly an acceptably, adult meal.

“So this is a rare treat then?” you ask.

Emily’s nodding, sucking the chocolate from her fingers not at all delicately.

“The shop’s not in London so they don’t often make it to the market. I don’t think I’ve seen them here yet this summer.”

“And what about Rose? She doesn’t fancy candy apples?”

She smiles guiltily, wiping the corners of her mouth with the pad of her thumb. “Bit of a health nut, actually.”

“Ah, well, no wonder you get on so well.”

She narrows her eyes at you, scowls for a split second before saying, “We’ve plenty of _other_ things in common obviously.”

“Obviously,” you say. It’s maybe all the fresh air, the sweets, or the warming sun that’s relaxed you. The tension from before having waned, your curiosities – rampant, at this point – start to pique.

You’re about to ask her to elaborate on Rose, on some of those ‘other things,’ when she says, “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean, you’re here for work, obviously, but are you – or, is there – back home, I mean. Is there someone?”

The way she struggles to ask, as if she’s not entirely certain she’s prepared for the answer, warms your skin. And you smile at her, fondly, when you say, “Not for ages.”

She looks away, though smiling as she does so, and it feels like the kind of moment that could go on, without any other words between you, for a very long time. The sun is touching everything – the peaks of the tents from the market so bright white, you can barely look at them.

“You’re going to like her,” Emily finally says.

“No pressure or anything,” you say lightly.

“You just will,” she shrugs. “Everyone loves Rose – it can’t be helped.”

“I’m sure she’s lovely,” you say, and it comes off sounding so believable, you’ve nearly convinced even yourself.

Emily finds a stray piece of chocolate on the paper tray between you and snatches it up.

“You know how to get to the flat then?”

“I’m fairly certain I can navigate, yes. But, in the event I get lost, these smart phones are terribly useful, aren’t they?” You’ve picked yours up off the table and wag it obnoxiously in front of her.

“Ha ha – you’re fucking hilarious. I hope you _do_ get lost.”

“Thanks a lot!” you laugh, folding your arms along your stomach. “And is this how you treat all your dinner guests? Wishing on them misfortune before they’ve even stepped inside your flat?”

“Of course not – you’re the exception, naturally.”

You clear your throat and look back to the small, paper tray between you, hoping to distract yourself with the apple that’s no longer there. The entire thing, in fact, has been picked clean – Emily not daring to let any bits of stray chocolate go to waste. But then, there aren’t any distractions large enough for this anyway. Because some things just sound too familiar, too reminiscent of an old life, when they come out of Emily’s mouth. You want to ask her if she knows what it feels like to be sat in front of her again. You want to ask if she knows that so much of it feels exactly the same as it did. As it always has.

“I should get going – I’ve got flowers to buy, you know,” is what you say instead.

“I suppose I should finish my shop,” she says, a bit resigned.

No one’s moving to leave, to stand, to shift at all, even though you’ve just agreed that your time is up. _Time is unkind_ , you think; and it’s a thought you’ve had so often where Emily is concerned.

“Thanks for lunch,” you say.

“Thanks for the flowers,” Emily answers, and when you laugh she says with a shrug, “Just practicing my delivery.”

“Well,” you say, finally standing. “I expect a bit more enthusiasm than that, Emily.”

“Duly noted.”

She stands as well, folding the paper tray from the apple in half. When you exhale in preparation to your farewell, she looks up at you and says, “This has been nice – running into you, I mean. Or, seeing you again at all, really.”

There are several things threatening to explode from within you – none of which are appropriate to say to someone who’s just told you they are indefinitely _partnered_ to someone else, and all of which you thought you’d successfully buried ages ago  – so you press your lips together very firmly and watch as Emily tries to anticipate your response.

After what feels like too long, you tell her the truth. “It’s been very nice indeed.”

She holds your eye for longer than you expect her to, for longer than she _should_ , given what you now know as well as everything that you don’t. So to distract yourself from thinking about the lovely colour of them – that dark, rich brown that makes all the bones in your body feel limp and useless – you look back towards the market, flip a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What time did you say to come round?” you ask, hoping that talk of dinner will remind you of adulthood, and of Rose, and of the Emily standing before you now and not the one from so many years ago.

“Seven would be great for us.”

 _Us_. Yes, that’s the stinging crux of it. Emily is no longer just Emily but some part of another unit. It hurts to swallow – the moisture all but gone from your teeth and tongue – but it’s a necessary reminder you can’t ignore.

“Perfect – I’ll ring you when I’ve arrived. Enjoy your shop,” you say, gesturing your arm in the direction of the market.

“Thanks. See you later.”

You wave, a stilted one because it’s well awkward waving to someone who’s stood right in front of you, and then head off in opposite directions. The crowds seem to have thinned a bit during your impromptu luncheon, and you’re able to purchase a large bouquet of daises, wrapped in brown paper and beautiful ribbons, without much wait.

“I was just thinking –“

You jump, quite literally, at the sound of her voice and pull the hand that was replacing money into your pocket up to your chest as you turn to face her.

“ _Jesus_ , you’re jumpy,” she’s laughing as you try to recover.

“You should’ve gone into fucking espionage, sneaking up on people like that. Christ.” Your heart is thumping loudly, felt against the hand you’ve placed there. From the scare, obviously, and in no way connected to the peals of Emily’s laughter.

“Sorry,” she says, but because she’s also still trying to settle her laughter, you’re not inclined to believe her.

“So, you were thinking?”

“I was thinking you should come into the market with me, keep me company on my shop.”

She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, squints up at you again, closing just one eye so it looks more like she’s winking. An unfortunately adorable expression that you find to be horribly unfair, as you’re working up a way to turn her down.

“Should I?” It’s a question you should be asking yourself, but instead pose it to Emily who of course beams happily that you’ve all but accepted her offer.

“Yes, you should. I’ve got a thousand things I want to ask you, and it’s a gorgeous day – seems like a waste to spend it by myself.”

“A _thousand_ things you want to know, hey?”

Emily shrugs, shoves her hands into her back pockets and rocks up onto the balls of her feet. “Roughly.” She couldn't be more irresistible if she tried, which she doesn't and never has, making it all the more impossible to deny her. 

You turn the bouquet over in your hand. The brown paper wrapping already feels damp from being clutched too tightly. “Can’t imagine I have a thousand things worth telling,” you say, lamely avoiding the offer altogether.

“Running your mouth was never a problem before – I’m sure you’ll manage,” she counters with a cheeky smirk.

You glance at your mobile for no reason. You’ve got nowhere to go, and the only person you’re honestly interested in seeing is standing, albeit defiantly, directly in front of you.

“Well, with compliments like that, how can I say no?”

Emily grins triumphantly as you fall into stride and head farther into the market.

**

Emily’s plan to interrogate you, thinly veiled by an invitation to peruse fruits and vegetables, had been cut short thanks to a one of your artists, who rang you frantic and catastrophising as is his tendency. But you and Emily had covered some of the basics – a rough synopsis of your work and of her life in the city – and so you feel marginally less anxious when stepping out of the taxi in front of Rose and Emily’s flat.

Standing at the base of the stairs just outside, bullet point from your earlier conversation run through your head, unprompted.

Emily met Rose doing post-grad work in literature here in London, and they’ve been seeing each other steadily ever since [going on four years].

Emily’s still working towards her PhD, but currently teaches part-time as a professor at a smaller university – an enticing visual that was not easily brushed from your mind as she spoke about her passion for education. You see her in pencil skirts and heels, simple, pleated tops or herringbone jumpers, sat atop her desk with her legs crossed and an open copy of _Leaves of Grass_ in one hand.

Emily doesn’t cook – still can’t properly fry an egg, you imagine – so the market shop had been upon Rose’s request for a meal she’s preparing. Your anxiety levels surge only slightly as this thought resurfaces, in hopes you won’t have to fake your way around complimenting a shit meal.

But actually, nothing has prepared you for the moment you actually meet Rose. Because you’ve never known Emily to belong to anyone other than yourself. And the fact that you’re now only seconds away from awkward introductions, twists in your stomach and perspires under your arms. Because you should have already gone through this – this meeting significant others of your exes. Or, you should have had at least enough sense to politely decline the offer. Because, on the very real chance you simply can’t stomach the sight of them together, storming out the flat in a fit of emotions would have been so much more acceptable at 21 rather than at 31.

At your age, you’re meant to be civil, at the least. And bloody _charming_ , at your best. Which is what you’ve convinced yourself to be – warm and interested and gracious – as you walk up the front steps and reach for your mobile.

Of course everything goes to shit once you see that Rose is stunning and blonde and _pregnant_.

Emily just keeps smiling at the both of you, this incredibly unguarded look like she’s fucking _pleased_  with herself for making this happen. This introduction of her past to her present. You’re certain she’s saying lovely things about one of you, gesturing between you both as Rose reaches out, grabs warmly to your shoulders and kisses your cheek. But everything’s muffled and distant like Emily’s mouth is full of cotton.

“ … says we’ve got a piece of the art world among us.” Rose smiles when she pulls back, watching as you try to form words while the sensation of her bloated _womb_ still feels heavy against your stomach.

You’re touching it – your own stomach – but staring at hers when you manage a belated, “Sorry?”

“Emily says you’re working with some local curators on an installation?” She turns from you slightly then, towards the stovetop, and the profile is almost worse than looking at her head-on.

You’re all stood in the kitchen, and it smells incredible, but your first instinct is to run for the toilet because your head feels fuzzy and extra saliva has started to gather under your tongue. You refrain, though barely.

“Yes, that’s right,” you say, only now feeling as though you can both speak _and_ look to Emily without throttling her on the spot. “There’s a group of us – curators, artists, designers, that is – working on a multi-media presentation down at the Asylum.” You’ve done it now – completed a full sentence – and can breathe a bit easier as a result. _The rest of the evening_ , you think, _can only go up from here_. It’s then you remember the flowers, presenting them a bit forcefully to Emily who’s stood to your left. “Here, um, for you.”

“Oh,” Emily coos, eyes sparkling mischievously. “How lovely.”

You open your mouth to respond, eyes narrowed at her faux appreciation, just as Rose turns back to face you.

“That space is amazing – I’ll be looking forward to the exhibition,” Rose says, circling a hand over her stomach. “But Emily said you were only in London temporarily?”

“I am, yes. Probably a month or so. I’m based out of New York officially – been living across the pond for quite some time, actually.”

Emily’s wearing an expression that you can’t quite place, but when you raise an eyebrow to her she just nods, minutely, as if she’s just worked out some unspoken riddle.

The meal is amazing and Rose’s personality is every bit as infectious as Emily led you to believe. She’s older, you speculate by a generous margin, but aging looks good on her. A beautiful woman by anyone’s standards, but at one point, you’re watching Emily watch her. And you see it. You see the way she’s looking at her, the way her days begin and end with Rose. The memory of it is so haunting, so suddenly tragic, you excuse yourself from the table immediately for the loo.

You twist your hands under the taps, cool water falling onto your wrists until your skin feels less like it’s on fire. Until your breathing resumes to a normative pace.

**  

“So, no embarrassing or incriminating tales of Emily as a young college student then?” Rose pries, sipping delicately from her glass of sparkling water when you’ve returned to the table.

“Oh, no, afraid not. Emily was terribly boring at sixteen,” you say, watching Emily for a reaction. “Or has she led you to believe otherwise?” You’re feeling much more relaxed, concentrating more on conversing with Rose and less on the idea of Emily _and_ Rose. Also, the wine helps. “Honestly, Emily was more like the moral compass for the rest of us – for her sister, certainly.”

“You’re making me sound _awful_!” Emily protests.

“It was meant to be a compliment, obviously,” you laugh.

“It’s alright, Naomi, I’m familiar with a few stories Emily's shared – of course I’ve read the essays, and they were lovely.”

You sip again at your wine, knitting your brow at the comment. “The essays?”

“Emily wrote beautiful essays about her younger years – about her family, about Bristol, about you.”

You manage not to choke on the wine, but end up taking a less-than-graceful sip. Then look to Emily before confirming, “Oh _really_?”

“Babe,” Emily turns her face from you, places a hand on Rose’s knee. “Your opinions on my writing are a bit biased, no?”

“Bollocks – they were some of my favourites long before I was shagging you, darling.”

Emily’s blushing rather furiously when she’s turned back to see your look of confusion. “Rose was a professor of mine, once upon a time.”

“Oh.” You sip again, finishing the last of your wine. “Well, perhaps you were a bit more deviant after all.”

**

The bottle of wine poured at dinner is empty by the time you’ve helped clear the dishes and eaten dessert, so Emily pulls another from the fridge then looks to you, silently asking a question with raised eyebrows.

“I should get going, actually.”

“Of course not,” Rose answers, struggling to pull herself from the sofa. You’re helping her up, offering your hand like a goddamn gentleman before you even realise it. “Thank you,” she says, gripping a bit tighter to your hand and insisting, “Stay and keep Emily company for a bit – just because I’m a sleepy cow at half nine doesn’t mean either of you should have to call it a night.”

You thank her for dinner – at least the third time you’ve done so, but it really was immaculately prepared – and then look away when she reaches for Emily’s hand.

There’s a quaint, little balcony at the front of the flat that looks down on the quiet, tree-lined street below. So you help yourself to some fresh air and a sneaky fag when Emily says she’s heading upstairs with Rose to say goodnight.

“Haven’t they banned smoking in New York by now?”

“Just about,” you answer, blowing a cloud of smoke over the balcony’s edge. “Why do you think I returned to England?”

“I assumed it was for the weather.”

She’s stood beside you, mirroring your position with her elbows leant on the banister. You don’t look over at her when you say rather placidly, “Rose is lovely.”

“You like her.” Her relief is palpable.

“What’s not to like?” you say, pulling another drag. A few more seconds with your nicotine and you'll be prepared to face the very pregnant elephant in the room that’s been skilfully ignored until now.

Emily, of course, beats you to it. “You’re not angry then?”

“Angry, why?” Anger is the wrong emotion. You feel something – betrayal? trickery? – but it’s not anger. Still, something has to be said, and Emily seems to have prepared for it. “Because when you were filling me in on your life, you didn’t think to mention that Rose – who is ‘lovely,’ whom I’ll ‘adore’ – is also very much with child?”

“So you _are_ angry.”

You laugh, though it’s not from feeling humoured by any of this, and flick the end of your fag into the street below.

“I’ve nothing to be angry about, Emily. I just –“ You do turn to her then, cross your arms along your stomach and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She doesn’t face you, but even in profile you can see the guilt in her eyes, in the way she worries her bottom lip. “I just – wasn’t sure, I guess.”

“You weren’t sure about what?”

She turns, just her head, and only quickly before looking back to the line of trees that's level with the banister. “How much to tell you, all at once.”

“I don’t understand.” And you don’t. Your head is still spinning from it, trying to sort any sense from what she's said when Emily breathes out something heavy and spins to lean the small of her back against the balcony’s edge. She crosses her arms and stares into the flat.

“I guess if things were different – if it were me, finding out about this new life of yours with a _‘Rose’_ and a … family on the way –“ She ends it there, just sort of trails off and runs a hand through her hair.

“Hey,” you say gently. Without thinking, you place a hand lightly on her arm, and it strikes you then that this is the first you’ve touched in so many days. In so many _years_.

Emily looks first to where your hand rests then meets your eye and sighs heavily. “It would be hard for me to take in,” she finishes.

Your hand drops on its own because you’ve since lost feeling in your limbs. Because Emily always does this – says the things you’ve not allowed yourself to _think_ , let alone say out loud.

**

After another glass of wine, and with some of the stifling tension dissolved, you remember to ask, “So, there are essays about me, hey?”

“If you think you’re privy to read them, you’re fucking delusional,” Emily says, settling into the sofa across from you in their sitting room.

“But they’re _about_ me,” you argue.

“Precisely! And anyway, they were written a hundred years ago when I was still shit at everything and figuring out my own, you know, _voice_.” She’s shaking her head, swirling the wine in her glass as she looks down at it. “I can promise you, they’re nothing spectacular.”

You consider your next question, though clearly not long enough because it’s coming out of your mouth before you’ve prepared to actually hear Emily’s response. “So does that mean that Rose knows –“ you stop, pull your top lip between your teeth.

“She’s aware of your significance, yes,” Emily says, taking a slow sip and smirking at you when she’s through.

 _There isn’t enough wine in Italy_ , you think, _to lessen the effect of_ that _look_.

“So, New York,” she says, reaching forward to refill your glass.

“Brooklyn, actually, but yes.”

“Hmm.” She’s nodding again, topping off her own glass with the remainder of the bottle.

“What –" you ask, close to laughing. "What is that _look_?” 

“Nothing, it just makes sense.”

“What – me in New York? I can’t imagine why – I’ve generally always hated foreign cities. Especially loud, pretentious, American ones,” you say with an eye roll.

“No, well yes, sort of. It’s just,” she stares into her wine glass, shaking her head in way that is so very Emily, you take a deep a breath and hold it. “I could never figure out where you’d gone – why we’d never crossed paths all that time. But, it makes sense now – we weren’t even on the same fucking continent, were we?”

When she looks up, her smile is tentative at best, but it’s subtle enough a reminder for you to resume breathing.

“I needed a change.” You hate yourself for saying it, for all its implications and how you’re not ready to have this conversation _at all_ , let alone in a flat Emily shares with her very pregnant partner.

Emily nods once before concentrating again on the glass in her hand. “Yes, I recall.” It’s not malicious, and in fact her voice goes so soft you wouldn’t have heard it at all if you weren’t also sitting still as church mice.

The wine Emily had poured goes down quickly after that, and you have a sense you’re both less-inclined to catch up on each other’s lives as you had been earlier in the evening. So before long, you’re saying your goodbyes at her front door, leaning in awkwardly for a one-arm hug that leaves you feeling more tense than anything.

“Please thank Rose again for me – dinner was absolutely amazing. And congratulations, of course, to you both,” you say.

She doesn’t look as if she believes the congratulatory remark any more than you believe yourself, honestly, but you smile at one another just the same.

“You’re okay getting back then? Are you sure I can’t call you a taxi?”

“I’ll be fine – sort of feel like walking a bit anyway.”

She nods, bites at her lip then says, “We’ll talk again, yeah?”

There’s a hopefulness to her tone – one that’s always been there; and, whether Emily realises it or not, it’s one you’ve never been able to turn away.

“Of course. Ring me next week if you like.”

“I will. See you.”

“Yeah, see you.”

A block from the flat, you find your mobile and quickly find the number in your contacts. After four rings, the line picks up.

“I hope you’re sitting because you’re never going to _fucking_ believe who I’ve just had dinner with,” you say even before a greeting of any sort.

And somewhere behind the low, unaffected laugh that’s become one of the many things endearing you to her completely, you hear three clicks of a lighter.

**

The phone call had kept you company on your walk the night previous, but ultimately ended too quickly. So it’s no surprise she’d suggested, or rather _demanded_ , you meet for brunch the following morning. The warm, sunny weather from Saturday’s been swapped out with something more typical, and you almost sigh in relief upon pulling up the hood on your rain jacket and stepping outside.

 _Something just feels more authentic when London is damp_ , you think.

It’s a short walk to Roast, a brunch spot in Borough’s Market, and before long you’re being led to a small table near the back and met with the only other set of eyes – besides Emily’s – that have ever truly terrified you.

“I prefer blondes, you know,” she says by way of a greeting.

You smile politely to the hostess as she pulls back your chair then sigh as you look back to the table.

“Not even three seconds in and I’m already a disappointment?”

“I’d hate to think we’d broken tradition.”

Effy stands to pull you into a loose hug. When she leans back and looks at you, that barely-there smile always threatening to reveal all your secrets, you find her hand, give it a squeeze. “I’m drinking bellinis – you need to catch up,” she demands, so casually it’s as if she couldn’t care whether or not you comply. “Apparently you’re still operating on American time where punctuality is considered _passé_.”

“You’re just jealous I went without you,” you say, taking the seat across from her.

“Fucking right I am,” she says, just loud enough you almost believe she means it. “How long are you back then?”

The waitress approaches and you tell her to bring whatever Effy’s drinking.

“A month, maybe more.”

“Maybe more depending on …” She sips from her champagne flute, eyeing you over its petit rim.

“Depending on how smoothly things go with the installation and ultimately with the opening. The space is quite different from others I’ve worked, so –“

“So not because of old, redheaded ghosts wafting back into your life unexpectedly.”

The eye roll, you can’t control [you never could]; besides, you’d prepared for as much from Effy when agreeing to meet. Knowing that sharing the information of your run-in with Emily would be like waving a red flag in front of a charging bull.

“Not fucking likely,” you counter lightly, unwrapping the cutlery from your napkin and placing the linen along your lap. “Or have you forgotten the wife and unborn child?” And then, as if it matters, “Besides, she’s gotten rid of the red. It’s darker now, more like Katie’s.”

Effy counts off on one finger, “ _Not_ a wife, technically,” then raises a second digit, “and it’s not like the kid’s officially hers yet. You can’t adopt a foetus, can you?”  

“Semantics,” you say, and then sigh in relief, nearly audibly, when the drink arrives because you’ve never been very comfortable having Effy analyse your life, let alone where alcohol wasn’t involved. “She’s happy, alright? _They’re_ happy.”

“Bollocks.”

You’ve drained half the glass before setting it back down. “Of course she’s happy – she’s living the life she wanted to have. She gets the happy ending.”

“Happy ending my arse,” Effy scoffs, motions for two more drinks.

“Fine, happy endings are for fairy tales, and fairy tales are for children. But you get my point.”

Effy’s gaze is deliberate, pointed. “It can’t be a fairy tale if the princess gives up love for something lesser.”

“And am I meant to be the pathetically helpless maiden in this contrived scenario, or is she?”

Effy grins wickedly, drinks the last sip of her cocktail. “Take your pick.”

“Fates and fairy tales don’t really seem like your bag, Eff – I have to say, it’s rather heart-warming.”

“Fuck off,” she says dully.

Your laugh is light when you look off to the windows and catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. “How’s work then?” you ask, knowing that shifting the conversation away from Emily is probably futile but worth a shot at least.

“It’s boring as fuck, and I’ve no interest in discussing _either_ of our careers at the moment. That’s the content of emails and long-distance phone calls. But I’ve got you _here_ , in the flesh,” she says raising a glass towards you, “so we’re sure as fuck going to get pissed and talk about your love life.”

“Should be a rather brief conversation then,” you sigh, and gamely clink your glass against hers.

“Says the girl who’s run into her bloody soulmate after a decade and can’t even say her name.”

“ _Emily_ ,” you say with emphasis and making pointed eye contact, “is not my fucking _soulmate_. She’ll always mean a great deal to me.” You look to your hand where it rests on the table because it’s never been easy being honest with Effy, and particularly not while looking her in the eye. “But the rest of it – the love life and the family, the happily-ever- _fucking_ -after – it belongs to someone else.”

Effy scowls across from you. “Thieving slag.”

“You can’t nick something if it doesn’t belong to anyone else, can you?”

The second round arrives but you leave yours sat on the table, and Effy seems momentarily distracted by something so you flip open the menu.

After a moment, she says with a look of serious consideration, “Well, with Emily off the market, you could always ring Katie to see if it’s a goer.”

And you’re immediately grateful you’d _not_ taken a sip of your drink because spitting bellinis across a table at brunch is likely frowned upon.

**

Effy is still just as reliable for getting you off your tits, and Sunday brunch had been no exception, so that by Monday morning you’re still feeling a bit sluggish. The morning drags on, but the venue is cool and damp, some kind of naturalistic cure for a hangover. By lunch you’re feeling more like yourself except that you’re extremely distracted by the placement of one of the artists’ pieces – it’s not yet displayed but you’re staring at a proposed blueprint of the space – which is why you fumble for your mobile and answer without even checking the ID.

“This is Naomi.” Your face is still screwed up, glancing between the paper layout and the wall, and your fingers tangle in your loose hair.

“Hi.” The voice is scratchy and cautious and chipper all at once, and there’s only one, fucking person you’ve ever known who starts phone calls in this way. “It’s Emily.”

“Emily, hi.” You squint at the wall once more before closing your eyes, giving up entirely, and finally heading outside.

“I didn’t know if you’d answer – you must be busy, I imagine.”

“I am – we are, yes. The early stages are always the most time-consuming. Logistics, you know?” You wish you had a fag, but you’ve left them back at the hotel. Intentionally, because you don’t even really smoke anymore, not really, and your throat is still so fucking raw from your time with Effy, who smokes more like a chimney on speed.

“Right, yeah, I figured. No time for a late lunch then?”

“I was just going to grab something quick, actually. Eat on site, you know.” You lean up against the outside of the building, its walls made of cold, rough stone. You can feel it soothing your nerves through the thin cotton of your vest top – cool and textured against your bared shoulders. “Anyway, don’t you have work? Furthering the great minds of Britain’s finest or something?”

Emily laughs. You kick one foot up against the wall behind you and convince yourself it’s not to keep from tipping over.

“I only teach in the mornings – still just part-time, you know?” She sighs, and you think of her mouth, the way it’s probably twisting around in thought. “I usually spend my afternoons writing, it’s just that, well, with you here.” She stops again without finishing her thought. And you wonder just how Emily has been charged with teaching the intricacies of the English language if she can’t even complete a bloody sentence.

“What have I got to do with anything?” you sort of laugh, running a hand through your hair.

“Well, it’s just – a bit distracting.”

 _Fucking_ fags in the _fucking_ hotel. You reach down for a twig beside your shoe. Snap it between your fingers instead, and watch it fall in tinier pieces onto your trainers.

“Sorry, that’s a shit thing to say,” Emily hurries to correct. “I didn’t mean –“

“No, it’s fine. I get it. I – I know what you mean.” You breathe out, heavily. Tip your head back against the wall and look off to the gardens. “It’s all been a bit odd. Being back, and then –“

“I know,” she softly cuts in. You think maybe she doesn’t, that she couldn’t possibly; but then, since it’s Emily, she probably fucking does.

Regrettably, you’ve never known how to say the right things to her. Either badly timed or poorly phrased, you’ve got a certain knack cocking things up with her in this way. And so, true to form, you tell Emily to come by the Asylum, if she’d like.

“Really? Would that be alright?”

It’s not really alright, and for reasons having fuck-all to do with artist privacy. But you’ve started down some terribly unpredictable path with her, yet again, and your inability to veer from it feels almost repetitive.

**

Emily predictably gasps in awe at the structure, at the beautifully preserved history of the space as you walk her through it. And then you’re both sat in the garden, sharing a bench and eating Mediterranean sandwiches wrapped in pita bread.

“I had brunch with Effy,” you tell her, wiping a bit of hummus from the corner of your mouth.

Emily’s eyes go wide in what looks like pleasant surprise while she chews. “I had no idea she was around. Christ, haven’t thought of her in ages.”

“We’ve kept in touch, a bit,” you admit, taking another bite.

“How is she?”

You shrug because Effy was never one to be adequately described by the English language. “Relatively similar to sixth form, actually. Obnoxiously subdued and perceptive.” And then you laugh and append, “She’s introduced colour into her wardrobe.”

Emily smiles, plucks an olive from her sandwich and pops it into her mouth while you try, and fail, not to stare. “Tell her I said hello, if you see her again.”

“I will,” you say, swallowing, looking back to your own sandwich, and then consider never telling Effy about this impromptu meeting, _ever_.

“I really can’t get over this place,” Emily says, looking back over to the stone building in the distance. “It seems too gorgeous, even in its current state, to have ever housed lunatics.”

Your mouth is full of food so you cover it when laughing, and Emily just eyes you inquisitively until you can clear your throat.

“It’s not – or it wasn’t, rather, a madhouse. The Asylum was part of a collection of almshouses, living accommodations for the impoverished and elderly near the end of the seventeenth century.”

She just watches you with this intensity while you talk, the look something so reminiscent of a time you’d once rambled on about _Hamlet_ and soliloquy, you have to clear your throat before continuing.

“This chapel,” you motion towards it with a bob of your head, “barely survived a bombing during World War II. It was mostly gutted, actually, save for the stained glass. Rather remarkable bit of history, I’ve always thought.”

Emily doesn’t say anything at first, just sort of sits there looking at you until the only thing you can think to do it apologise for boring her with historical facts.

“No, it’s a lovely story. I just forgot what it was like.” She smiles, but more to herself than anyone because she’s looked downward and slowly shakes her head.

You furrow your brow, bite at your bottom lip to keep from taking the bait, trying desperately to keep yourself from asking what you’re _sure_ you don’t need to know. But you’ve never been that good at self-preservation.

“What what was like?”

“Hearing you talk like that – about your interests, your passions.” She selects a spot over your left shoulder, locks her eyes with it studiously.

“Can’t say I’ve ever really considered myself passionate about warfare,” you smirk, despite the sweat gathering in your palms, in the creases of your knees.

“Twat,” she laughs, and then does look at you just as the toe of her shoe kicks against your own. It  suddenly feels like the precursor to something so dangerous, so incredibly volatile, you know you’ve no choice but to leave immediately.

“I’ve got to get back, but thanks,” you gesture to the remains of food on the bench between you, “for the recommendation. And the company.”

“Sure,” she says, then smiles so easily you can’t _believe_ you’re expected to walk away without kissing her.

You should tell her you can’t keep meeting up – accidental or otherwise – because it feels too familiarly clandestine. Like instead of coffee shops and open markets it could just as well be dingy cubicles in the toilets and secluded lakes. You should tell her that in some ways she’s already been unfaithful to Rosalind, to the family they’re creating, just by sitting with you in some fucking park and talking about history. Just by bloody _looking_ at you. You should tell her it’s all making you a bit sick, turning your stomach to think of somehow mucking it all up for her – even if she never bends to temptation, even if _for her_ the temptation isn’t there – this life she’s got, this happiness she’s found in your absence. You should tell her, at the very least, that your work is too demanding, that you’ll be gone from London before you ever again have the chance to meet.

But you say something far worse, because saying the wrong thing has always been a talent of yours. “I’ll be virtually chained to this place for the next few weeks. You should … come by again, if you like.”

“I’d like that,” she says. “I’ll call you.” Emily stands, brushes crumbs that aren’t there from her shorts, then squeezes a hand just once to your upper arm before heading off.

**

The week following your lunch – and you hesitate sickeningly to call it a _date_ – in Caroline Gardens, Emily sends you two texts.

One to say that Rose is in labour so lunch will have to wait.

The second just says: _It’s a boy_ followed by a gross display of exclamation points.

In a spectacularly backwards fashion, you immediately toss into the tiny bin that’s kept tucked under the desk in your room, and then drink a bottle-and-a-half of wine.

 _Fucking pull yourself together_ , you say at some point to your reflection. And the lighting is dim. And your eyes look heavy, framed in dark circles. And your lips don’t move as you say it, so it’s probably just your internal fucking monologue or something. Except the words sound very loud in the small space of your hotel room.

You’re drinking from one of those small, plastic cups always left by hotel sinks [likely meant for _water_ ], and it feels just about as silly and desperate as being sixteen and slinging it straight from the bottle. Which, at some point, is what ends up happening. And it’s really no surprise that, although people have always said you were _clever_ , you’ve still not worked out the same dilemma you’d faced at that age: how to be without Emily.

You pass out at half ten and wake up at six the following morning to discover – by the fucking hand of god or something – that you didn’t once text, or worse yet _dial,_ Emily’s number.

**

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” is how Effy greets you later.

You can’t even say it out loud, and just the thought of the words on your tongue nearly activates your gag reflex again, so you just pull up the text and slide your mobile in front of her.

“Well, that’ll explain the stench,” she says after glancing down and motions for the bartender, some bloke who looks like a footballer that probably couldn’t hack it and is left to tend pubs for the rest of his life in too-tight polo shirts with the collars popped. Not that you’re in a position to pass judgement, having the pungent smell of shit wine still lingering in your pores, apparently. “Why the fuck didn’t you call me sooner, you sodding idiot?”

“Would’ve had to share the wine.” You say flatly then smile, disingenuous and forced, to which Effy just places a cool hand at the small of your back.

When the drinks arrive, Effy clinks hers against yours even though you’ve yet to reach for it, and winks after downing it in one go. “Solidarity.” It seems a bit less shit then, knowing Effy’s got your back – even if that means getting pissed at midday.

You’d worked for half the morning then fucked off, citing a migraine, and immediately rang Effy. You don’t ask how it is that _she’s_ able to fuck off from work as well – since you’d hardly given her more than a 30 minute warning – but, well, it’s _Effy._ And you’ve never once known her to not do whatever she bloody well pleases. It’s about the most unprofessional thing you’ve done since entering this line of work, and the guilt over having abandoned the project – even momentarily – for a fucking _hangover_ is making an already shit day feel even worse.

“Not to be a prick,” Effy starts, swirling a cocktail straw around her glass and looking straight ahead into the rows of glass liquor bottles – greens and blues and browns, backlit and glowing. She’d ordered you both vodka on the rocks, and the first sip tasted like the entire span of your life in college. “But,” she continues, a bit more cautiously than you’re comfortable with. “You did sort of realise this was on the horizon, yeah? Once you’d met Rose?” Gesturing with her hand over her own stomach, she mimes a distended belly.

You watch her hand move and even after it’s dropped back to her lap and then blink slowly before looking down into your glass. “It’s not any easier.” Your voice breaks on _easier_ , as if the word itself is a struggle as much as anything.

“Course not.”

You wait for more, for her to elaborate – for the part where Effy will lay it bear, sparing nothing. You need some reliable, cryptically-dispensed and sagely advice to lessen the enormity of it all. But she stays quiet, and if feels like inescapable confirmation of your worst fears. You’ve not lost Emily just once but for a second time. You’ve lost her for good.

Even still, in what’s maybe the last of your desperation, you ask, “What am I supposed to do?”

When she meets your eye, her certainty – the finality of it – sounds so much worse than her silence. “Do the right thing.”

“And, what’s that? What’s right?”

“I don’t know, Naomi,” she says and orders two more. “But you do.”

**

You send flowers, and when prompted by the greedy, capitalist-driven online shop, include a tiny, decorative baby rattle.

When you don’t have to worry about seeing Emily – in person or flashed across your caller ID – you resituate your priorities solely to the art opening, and it becomes invigorating to have reclaimed that time and energy. You’d let everything slip for just a handful of days, but it feels like longer. And now, every day, the space is changing. The artistry with which you’re involved is fucking brilliant, and you revel in that for a solid week – spending long days at the venue, sharing bottles of wine with the lot of them after hours. Working late into the night either on-site or in the quite confines of your hotel room. Effy comes along with you most nights when you’re out with your little band of artists. And you’ve yet to work out if it’s just her natural inclination towards the outcasts and radicals of society that’s drawn her in, or her protective nature of an old friend. Because it’s how she’s always shown concern, unsuspectingly.  

The absolute most she pries is to say, ‘Alright?’ one evening when you’re both smoking outside some dodgy pub where Trevor – your neurotic, obsessive muralist – had ‘felt a good vibe’ from the pavement just outside and insisted you all head in for nightcaps.

You exhale loudly, flick ash from the tip of your fag and say, “Suppose so.” You’re both leant up against the wall of the place, and it might as well be Fishpond’s on a rainy weeknight when you’d all manage to end up at the same place without really trying. If you closed your eyes, you could almost see Katie checking her lipgloss; you could almost hear Cook’s obnoxious howling, flailing about in uncontained excitement.  “Feel a bit stir crazy sometimes.”

“You might consider a fucking social life that consists of more than just your work mates and your ex-girlfriend.”

“I’ve got a social life, _thanks_ ,” you say, flicking the stub of your cigarette away in annoyance. “Just so happens to exist on another fucking continent, yeah?” You push off the brick wall, lean against it with your shoulder instead so that you’re essentially just watching Effy as she takes these long, languid drags off her cigarette. And then tell her, “’Sides, I’ve got you, right?”

You’ve never really felt cool enough to consider Effy a friend even though, from the very start, she’d just sort of wedged herself into that role. It’s not even an accurate measurement anyway, since Effy’s closest friend for ages was Panda, a girl who rarely understood her arse from her elbow. Still, sometimes you’re not even conscious of it – just how ill-fitted you are as mates – until moments like these. Because you’ve always secretly cared about the opinions of others, while Effy’s clearly never given a single fuck.

You watch as her head lolls until she’s looking straight at you and says, “Thick as thieves, me and you,” with some wicked grin that glints behind the blue in her eyes that have always been a more unsettling hue than your own. And the smoke just slips between her lips on every syllable and floats away.

**

The invite arrives on a voicemail. And not because you’d been screening your calls – because, sadly, you’re not even certain you’d be able to ignore a call from her at this point – but because you’d been in a meeting and your ringer was silenced.

You’re minimally prepared for the _sound_ of her voice as soon as you see the missed call, because you’ve bloody well committed her number to memory by now [even if you’ve not saved her as an _actual_ contact]; but the content of the message feels immediately like a leaden, fucking anvil at the pit of your stomach.

Like a coward, you respond via text and ask: _Alright if I bring Effy?_

“Remind me why I’m here again?” Effy’s clung to the crook of your elbow, huddled close to your ear as you make your way towards Rose and Emily’s flat.

“Because I’m not fucking doing this _alone_ – I need some moral support, and you’re as good as I’ve got on short notice,” you say, hurrying her along like you’ve been left to walk your granny to Sunday mass or something.

“Right,” she says, and then, “Remind me why _you’re_ here again?”

You exhale in disgust at the absurdity of her question, and just keep tugging her along down the pavement. “It was kind of her to extend the invite, alright? And it would be _more_ weird if I’d declined, obviously. I didn’t want to be rude so soon after we’ve just, you know, reconnected.”

“Oh sure,” Effy says drolly, “save that for when you’re nailing her – remind Emily of how sweet things were the first time around, yeah?”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Eff – that’s not what I fucking meant!” She laughs then, and you can feel it against your side where she’s clutching. It’s almost enough to shrug her off your elbow, but you sulk instead, “Thick as thieves, yeah? What happened there?”

“Relax, I’m fucking aces at awkward encounters.”

Your pull against her is so abrupt, she stumbles back a few steps before righting herself and facing you where you’ve stopped short.

“What the fuck?” she says, partially annoyed though she can’t quite stop laughing.

“You’re fucking stoned,” you growl, brows knitted. Asking Effy questions has always been a waste of breath anyway. Best to just speak to her in certainties. That much you’ve learnt by now.

Her annoyance dissipates instantly, replaced by a smug expression that’s always made you think of Tony. “I would’ve offered to share, but you’ve always been a bit twitchy around spliff in mixed company, _Naoms_.” She reaches to reclaim your arm again, except you do shrug her off this time and scowl so hard your face actually hurts.

“I do _not_ want to be thieves with you anymore,” you say between gritted teeth then stomp away from her, in a spectacular display of petulance.

You’re stood at the door, arm poised to knock, before remembering that you actually can’t, physically, walk through it alone. Because beyond it lies a infant and his mother – no, _mothers_. Emily, a mother. Fucking Christ. And Effy – god help you – is meant to be your buffer, your sodding support system. So, you cross your arms tightly over your chest and turn to wait as Effy continues along at her lazily seductive gait that she probably perfected at age 12 for how fucking effortless it’s always looked.

“Stop scowling,” she lightly scolds once you’re both stood side-by-side, staring mutually at the door in front of you. “You’ll frighten the baby.”

It’s Emily who answers – her face just as radiant as you’ve always imagined motherhood would look on her, a thought that results in foregoing your fight with Effy and reaching down to clutch her hand.

“You came!” Emily first pulls you into a hug then reaches for Effy next. And it’s a funny sight – to see her straining to reach her arms around Effy’s stature – because you can’t remember a time when they’d ever been particularly affectionate. “Effy – _Jesus_ , it’s good to see you. Been fucking ages, hasn’t it? Come in, come in.” She waves the pair of you forward excitedly with both hands, and the flat is just crowded with people and voices and laughter.

You’re just looking at her thinking: _I can’t believe it’s been ten days_. Which is such a ridiculous thought on which to linger because it’s so obviously the _ten years_ that have made all the difference. Effy’s elbow softly finds your ribcage, and you clear your throat, holding up a small, blue gift bag to Emily.

“I brought books,” you announce. You hardly recognise your own voice, it’s so fucking rigid. Though that hardly stops you from prattling on like an idiot. “For the baby. He’s too little, obviously, to read them. Or comprehend them even. Probably. But I thought – well, you teach so – and besides literature –“

“Shut up, Naomi,” Effy says quietly, evenly.

Emily reaches out for the bag, smiles warmly and significantly less bubbled-over in excitement when she says, “Thank you. It’s the perfect gift.”

On cue, Effy pulls out [from where, you’re unclear] a wooden box, slender and used, and presents it to Emily who’s not yet unlocked her eyes from yours. “I’ve brought spliff.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, placing your free hand to your forehead and letting your eyes fall shut momentarily.

But Emily just brightens her smile and laughs, taking the gift with a short nod. “Cheers, Effy.”

“Where’s the guest of honour then?” Effy asks.

Everyone’s just sort of milling about it seems, but you can detect a great deal of high-pitched chatter coming from the sitting room.

“Lewis is sat with Rose in the sitting room – or, well, whoever’s managed to snatch him up at the moment. Would you like to meet him?”

You’d very much like to pull a runner – escape right through the front door, without looking back – because this is the kind of moment you’re meant to avoid. You could have declined the invite. You could have foregone the dinners and the coffee. You could have ignored the calls. But you can’t ignore the orbital pull towards Emily; and that much has been proven time and again.   

Emily watches Effy for a reaction without looking to you at all, and the word _self-preservation_ floats around your head.

“Can’t wait,” Effy answers, her tone saturated in the kind of droned inflection typically reserved for nature documentaries.

When it’s over, you’ve walked about a block from the flat before realising that all the attendees for the ‘Welcome Home Baby Lewis’ soiree had been, apart from Rose’s mum, exclusively friends and colleagues – not a single member of Emily’s family making an appearance. Not even James, who’d always fancied lesbians almost as much as Emily. And you can’t help but worry then that she’s still, all these years later, suffering their intolerance. You think of seeing Katie – what that would have looked like, what with Effy in tow – and almost trip over your own feet. _The small blessings of near misses_ , you think. Effy just sort of regards you curiously as you right yourself, straining to smile.

And then she pauses, lights up the fag pinched lightly between her lips, and says on the exhale, “Come on then, let’s get pissed for the rest of the day.”

The opening for the exhibition keeps looming, the pressure of it building, until you check your calendar and realise it’s less than a week away. And because her timing has always been fucking brilliant, Emily rings you in the midst of everything.

“I’d like to see you, if you’ve any time for lunch. Or coffee, even.”

You can’t quite place it, but there’s a quality to her voice – to the request itself – that sounds foreign not because you’ve not heard it before, but because you’ve not heard it in _so long_.

People are teeming everywhere around you, hauling lumber and film equipment, lighting and draperies. Everyone’s on a mobile or a tablet, everyone’s directing and moving. But you’re just stood still, listening to the silence stretch along the line; and the sound of it is so much louder than anything else. 


End file.
